


Hair Today

by AWomanOfLetters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Funny, Sam's Hair, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:28:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4870106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWomanOfLetters/pseuds/AWomanOfLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam wakes up to find his hair has been shaven off.  But why?  And who?  Sam has a suspect, that's for sure!</p><p>Prompted by a post from TippiTV on tumblr:  http://tippitv.tumblr.com/post/129603493197/ultrafacts-source-follow-ultrafacts-for-more</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam woke up because his head was cold.

His muddled, sleepy thoughts registered this as unusual. Now that he was vaguely conscious, it seemed like it was a good idea to actually sit up, start the day. He sat up, ran his hands through his hair...

His hair.

It wasn't there.

Or, well, it was there, but significantly shorter. Significantly. Like, buzz-cut short. He felt around the top of his head with increasingly frantic hands. Short. Everywhere. He sprang out of bed, dashed to the bathroom, took one look in the mirror and howled in fury.

"I'm gonna _kill_ you!" he roared as he sprinted back into the main room, over to Dean's bed, knotted his fists in his older brother's flannel shirt, and yanked him upright. Dean automatically reached under his pillow for his gun, but Sam held him up further, shaking him, choking out, "Damn you! Not _funny_ , Dean! Not funny at all!"

Dean's confused, sleep-fuzzed eyes finally focused on Sam, and he batted ineffectually at the hands holding him up.

"Wha--what the fuck, dude!"

Then his eyes really focused. His jaw went slack with surprise as his eyes traveled over Sam's shaven head. His lips twitched. Then he started to laugh. Sam growled inarticulately and shook him some more. It didn't help: Dean was abruptly laughing so hard he began to gasp for air, and was clutching his stomach with one hand and slapping the bed with the other.

" _Dean_!" Sam yelled at his highest volume. "I said, _NOT FUNNY_!!!" He shook Dean a last time and flung him back down on the bed, where his brother just twisted weakly over, thumping the bed with a fist, tears streaming from his eyes.

He was barely able to gasp out, "Hair--", and then collapsed further onto the bed, rolling over onto his back and laughing even louder. Sam glared at him, jaw and fists clenched, huffing small snorts of rage. He threw his hands up in the air with another wordless growl and stalked back to the bathroom to stare with horror at his reflection again. The sight pulled a bellow of outrage from him. He could hear Dean in the other room; his gales of laughter had been calming down, but Sam's outburst yanked another sputtering horde of giggles from him.

He moved to push his hair away from his face, a gesture that was so ingrained and automatic that it was like breathing, and usually accompanied a thoughtful frown. The hand encountered nothing, and his thoughtful frown in the mirror was... _huge_. His _forehead_ was huge. His ears stuck out. His dammed neck looked like a giraffe's!

He whimpered.

"So what the hell--" Dean had managed to make it to the bathroom, and began to speak, but was overcome. He started to giggle helplessly, leaning back against the door jamb, hands on his stomach. "Oh, man. Oh, Jesus. Oh, man!" he gasped.

Sam whirled around angrily. The breeze on his ears, neck, was unfamiliar and chilly, and it made him whimper a tiny bit again.

"What do you mean, 'What the hell'?!? _You_ did this, dammit, I know it, you've been threatening to chop off my hair forever, you _sonovabitch!"_ Dean was holding up a hand, shaking his head, but still could barely speak.

"Not me, not me," he chanted breathlessly in between fits of giggling. "Swear it!"

"Oh, give it a rest! Not you, my fat ass!" Sam ground out, pushing past his brother into the main room. He strode over to his bed, pulled his duffle bag out from under it, and began angrily stuffing his things into it. He grabbed his hairbrush from the bedside table, glared at it, and suddenly threw it across the room. "Goddamit, Dean, this is the last straw! Stop being so fucking immature! What the hell--cutting my fucking _hair_ off!" he shouted.

Dean staggered into the room, began to say something, looked at Sam's head, began giggling again, and sat down abruptly on Sam's bed, looking away.

"Dammit, can't even look at you!" he choked, catching his breath and clamping down hard on the giggles that tried to escape. "Dude. I swear. Not me." He stopped a moment, heaved in a few deep breaths, and continued, "Really, truly. Not me. I didn't do it. Scout's honor." He held up a hand with an imitation Boy Scout sign.

Sam narrowed his eyes at his brother's back. "'Scout's honor'. Dude, you never were a fucking Boy Scout."

Dean shook a finger back at him, staring determinedly at the wall in front of him. "Point remains. It wasn't me. So: who was it? How'd they do it without waking us up? And, for god's sake, _why_?!?"

Sam's rage and horror began to drain away, and his brain kicked in. He sat down slowly on his side of the bed, frowning thoughtfully. His hand unconsciously reached up to brush his hair back again, and he scowled, forcing the hand down to rest on the bed quilt. "You _swear_ it wasn't you?"

"Dude. I wouldn't do a thing like that." Then he spoiled the earnest words by adding, "And if I did, I'd sure as hell do it while you were awake so I could see you breaking down in tears as I cut off your lovely, _lovely_ \--" he crooned the words, and Sam snarled. "--long locks of hair."

"Jerk," Sam growled at him, thumping him hard on the back.

"Bitch," Dean responded absently. He turned around to thump Sam in return, caught a glimpse of his shorn head, sputtered, and turned away again just in time. "We need to figure this out," he choked. "I mean, someone--some _thing_ \--gets in here, cuts your hair--gives you a fucking buzz cut!--and we don't wake up? Yeah, right."

Sam stood up, began pacing back and forth, chewing his lips. "You're right. We didn't wake up. That's a kicker." He stopped, thought, then strode back to his bed, to where the covers were rumpled up. He threw them back, scanned the linen, shook his head. "And there's no hair--" He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut for a painful moment, then opened them. "Not a bit of my hair here on the sheets." He picked up the pillows, eyes them, turned them over, tossed them back down. "Or pillows. Nothing. Nobody's _that_ good at cleaning up."

They were both silent for a few moments, thinking. Then Dean clapped his hands on his thighs and stood up. "Okay, then. I'm gonna go out, get us some food. You do some digging." Sam nodded wordlessly. Dean edged around the bed, keeping his eyes away from it, and Sam, and his buzz cut, and headed out the motel room door.

Sam blew out a deep breath, ran his hand over his head, and whimpered again.

Though it did feel nice and velvety under his palm...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam and Dean learn about the "Phantom Barber" and how s/he controls the people s/he has shaven.

Dean juggled the bags of food, holding the pile down with his chin, as he fished the motel room key out of his pocket. He opened the door and kept his head down as he made a beeline for the kitchenette, determined not to humiliate himself by busting a gut laughing at Sam's appearance.

Sam looked up from the open laptop.

"So..." he said. "Listen to this: apparently, the town's been plagued by--are you ready?--the "Phantom Barber" for the past few months."

Dean quickly transformed his stifled snort into a cough. "You mean this dude's hacked other people's hair off, too? He wasn't just lured in by your..." He tossed his head in imitation of a romance novel cover, smoothing nonexistent hair with one hand and gazing soulfully off into the distance. "...flowing locks?"

Sam growled in warning. 

Dean snickered, and slid two bowls of B&G onto the table, one in front of Sam, and sat down. He'd still kept his eyes averted.

There was a long silence from the other side of the table, and then Sam finally said, "Dean. What _is_ this stuff? It looks like heart disease in a bowl."

He accidentally looked at his brother in response, and quickly blocked the snigger with a forkful. Damn. The kid looked like a jarhead. Or a white supremacist. It was...just wrong. Not Sammy. It made him seriously uncomfortable. "Biscuits and gravy. The manna of the Midwest, dude! Try some!"

Sam poked at it with his fork, frowned, pushed it away. "There've been six cases in the past six months. All six..." He looked up at Dean. "All six... _did_ things shortly after the...um...barber's visit."

"Things." Dean chewed thoughtfully, then gestured at his brother with his fork. "Okay. I'm interested. What sort of 'things'? And if you don't want the B&G, pass it over. I got you some kind of parfait thing in the bag--fruit, yogurt, granola."

Sam's face broke into a grin of relief. He pushed the second bowl back in front of Dean, stood up, rummaged in the bag, and pulled out the parfait. "Well, let's see. There's Amanda Rafferty, who knifed a guy, killed him. Joe Harms torched a warehouse; it was a total loss. Gary McLellan deliberately gunned his Lexus through the display window at a local car dealership, smashing his car and four that were on display. Ended up in the hospital. Want the others?" He was eating the concoction as he talked.

"Um. Nope. So what you're getting at here--correct me if I'm wrong--is that you're likely to go off the reservation sometime soon? Do something vaguely anti-social?"

"Not 'vaguely'. And, yes, within the week if the pattern holds." Sam stared glumly down into his empty plastic parfait cup. "All of which sounds--"

"Sounds like the barber is, what? Controlling them? But why? For shits and giggles?"

Sam sighed, made an unconscious gesture to push his hair back, and gritted his teeth. He settled for rubbing the back of his neck. "Damn! And damned if I know. There's a psych's theory that they were all affected by the trauma."

Dean scoffed. " _Trauma_?!? Getting your hair chopped off is _traumatic_? Going to Hell is traumatic. Having your mom or girlfriend burned alive pinned to the ceiling is traumatic. Hair?!?" He rolled his eyes. Sam glared at him, slowly smoothing a hand over his short, velvety haircut.

"You have no idea, dude. I feel--feel--violated, dammit! I want my fucking hair back!"

Dean squinted at him and said, unsympathetically, "It'll grow back. Won't take too long. You'll live."

Sam reached behind him, felt around on the foot of his bed, located the decorative throw pillow, and hurled it squarely at Dean. "Bastard!" he growled.

Dean ducked, snatched the pillow as it sailed past, and heaved it right back. Then, while Sam was occupied, he dove to his own bed, grabbed one of the bed pillows, and advanced on Sam, eyes gleaming. Sam scrambled backwards for a bed pillow of his own, and the battle was joined. They thumped each other with the pillows, grunting and growling and, finally, laughing. Sam grabbed another, and, armed with two pillows, buffeted Dean relentlessly, pushing him back, until he was crouched against one of the beds, snickering. Sam slammed him with one, then the other, then again with the first, in a rapid one-two-three punch, and Dean finally reached out, punched the bed, and croaked breathlessly, "Uncle! Uncle, dammit! I give!"

Sam stepped back, towering over his brother, panting, and tossed his head back haughtily. Unfortunately, the lack of hair to toss back in the gesture reminded him of his loss, and he dropped to sit on the other bed, let the pillows fall to the ground, and sank his head into his hands.

"It feels so fucking _weird_!" he groaned. "When will I get used to it?!?"

Dean pulled himself into a sitting position on the floor, leaning against the bed with one knee up, and waved a hand. "Probably by the time it really starts growing back in." They both took a few moments to catch their breath, then he went on, "So let's go talk to the law, see if we can't get some more info. There's got to be something, some sort of connection behind all this. Can't have this sneaky sonovabitch getting control of a giant like you, can we?"

Sam just peered at him from under his eyebrows, doing his puppy-dog look. "I just...just don't want to hurt someone, y'know?"

Dean leaned forward and cuffed him with rough affection. "Yeah. I know, dude. We'll figure it out. We always do. So let's get suited up."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys talk to the local sheriff about the Phantom Barber.

B. Pickett was the sheriff. She was tall, rawboned, had a long face, and short chin-length dishwater blond hair. When Dean poked his head into her office, she was busy picking at a salad while reading the local newspaper.

"Sheriff Pickett? I'm Dean Sambora, this is my associate Sam McDonald; we're from the FBI. Deputy Shoemaker, out front, said we could talk to you."

She nodded, swallowed her mouthful of salad, stood up, rubbed her hand on her pants, and held out a hand. They took turns shaking it while she ran her eyes over them, quickly categorizing them. Her gaze lingered on Sam for a moment, with an unconscious dubious tilt to her head.

"Howdy, gents. What can I help you with? Always happy to help Feds..."

They sat down in the guest seats across the desk from her.

"Well, we heard about this odd 'Phantom Barber' case you've got going on, and--"

She looked at Sam again, took in the buzz-cut, and they could practically see the light bulb going off in her head. She struggled to suppress the twitch to her lips, and said, "Ohhhh, man. Lemme guess. Y'all were just passing through, stopped the night, and..." She waved a wordless hand at Sam's head. Sam folded his lips and just glared darkly, his jaw clenched.

Dean rubbed a hand over his own hair. "Um. Well. Agent McDonald here--yeah. Went to sleep last night with longer hair, woke up this morning like this. So...since it's a rare individual who can do this to an FBI agent without waking him up...we checked online, saw there had been a rash of cases and came to talk to you. Get some more info."

Pickett leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head. "Yeah. First one was Amanda. Poor Mandy. Known her all my life. She was the homecoming queen in high school. Beautiful long auburn hair. She was in hysterics. I'd be, too, frankly--though it's not like my hair is anything to write home about, y'know?" She absently ran a hand through her own hair. "She blamed Johnny--her husband. He swore up and down it wasn't him. He brought her in to the ER, they had to sedate her. Two days. Then she finally calmed down...and then, three days later, she knifes Buddy Halloran, kills him." She shook her head. "Damn shame."

Sam leaned forward, elbow on his knee. "There were five more cases--" She nodded. "What about them--is there _anything_ , anything at all, that connects all these people? Someone who was angry with them, that sort of thing?"

Pickett pursed her lips, shook her head. "Nope. Nothing. Aside from long hair beforehand, that is!" She squinted at him with a frown. "I know the fibbies have a low opinion of local law, but, jeez, man, it's the first thing we looked at. We're not gomers, y'know."

He held up a placating hand. "Sorry. Had to ask. So did you find anything in common about the people or things they attacked due to--" He glanced at Dean. "--the trauma?" Dean rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

She blinked at him in surprise, shrugged. "Well. Funny you should ask...there _was_ one thing..." They both leaned forward eagerly. "But, c'mon, it's all coincidence. Hugh Scott's taken a beating."

Dean flipped an inquiring eyebrow at her. "Hugh Scott...?"

She shrugged again. "Well. Lessee." She started ticking off on her fingers. "Buddy Halloran was his favorite cousin." One finger down. "The warehouse that burned down was his--no insurance, damn fool." Second finger. "Car dealership? His son's." Another finger down. "Four and five, nothing that I know of. Number six--that one was kind of wild, it was Stephanie Wright, she got into her crop duster, took off, and sprayed herbicide over forty acres of soybeans...and those belonged to Scott." She clapped her hands on the desk. "But, hey, it's not like these folks were out to get him or anything--he's just collateral damage from them going crazy over their mystery buzz cuts. It's a kinda small town, y'know, and Scott's a big deal around here, got his fingers in a lot of pies. So, weird things happen, he's bound t'be affected, y'know?"

Dean grunted noncommittally. "So, this Hugh Scott. Where do we find him? Just to chat."

"Eh. You'll find him over at Lisa's Cafe, pretty sure. It's where the good ol' boys hang out, drink coffee, shoot the breeze."

They stood up, thanked her, shook her hand again. She smiled at Sam. "Glad to know our mystery hair artiste hit an FBI agent this time--you're not likely to go berserk, right?"

Sam smiled back. "Right."

As they made their way back to the Impala, he grabbed Dean's elbow urgently. "Dude. We've _got_ to figure this out. Five days, give or take, and I'm gonna be doing something to this Scott guy."

Dean paused, looked out into the distance, thought a bit. "Yeah. So. Let's go chat him up." He clapped Sam on the shoulder, then they split apart, one to either side of Baby, and climbed in. He switched the radio on, and they started driving.

Sam listened a few seconds, then switched the station.

"Dude! What?!?"

"Sister Golden Hair. Nope," Sam growled.

The next song came on, and Sam reached to change the station again.

"Now what?!?" 

"Devil's Hair Cut, dammit!"

Dean started snickering. When the pop rock station they were on started playing "Whip My Hair", he howled and thumped the steering wheel.

Sam growled again and slapped the radio off. He leaned back in the seat, folded his arms, and stared gloomily out the windshield.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the local cafe results in a hair-raising story, and the boys get a suspect.

The decor at Lisa's Cafe--if you could call it that--was small-town diner thrift-shop. People sat on fifties-style padded metal chairs at a variety of old formica-topped tables with battered tops. There was a faded picture of George W. Bush hanging on one wall facing an even more faded picture of Ronald Reagan on the opposite wall. The industrial tiling, originally alternating black and white, was patched with a mish-mosh of whatever color was cheapest. Decor aside, it was obviously the town hub; there was a group of older men seated at two tables pushed together, and a smattering of families and friends sprinkled across the huge, low-ceilinged room.

When they walked in, a fresh-faced teen with a blonde ponytail and freckles called out cheerily, "With ya in a sec, guys!", and swooped down on one table with a tray of orders. Dean watched, eagle-eyed; he could see a slice of pie that looked homemade, and it tantalized him.

Done, the waitress brushed her hands off on her apron and came up to them, grabbed a couple of menus from behind the cash register counter, and smiled widely. She had braces. Dean sighed mentally, looking at her--he suddenly felt...not old, oh no, but..."mature". Yeah. That was the word.

"We're actually looking for Hugh Scott," Sam said, before she could lead them to a table.

She paused, surprised, and looked at them more closely. "Oh! Well." She gestured to the big group at the two tables. "You'll find him over there, with all the old guys. Will you two be needing a menu?"

"Not really--" Sam started, but Dean interrupted.

"Pie? What kind of pie you got?"

She dimpled a smile at him. "Apple, of course, blueberry, lemon meringue, and chocolate cream. My ma makes them fresh every day."

He smiled widely in return, his eyes sparkling. "Slice of blueberry and coffee for me!"

Sam shook his head at her. "Just coffee, thanks."

She led them over, calling "Hey, Hugh, some fellas to see ya."

The men at the tables peered at them with interest. There were six, with two empty chairs that had dirty dishes from previous occupants still there. A burly, iron-gray-haired man with a luxurious mustache waved at the empty seats. "Sit yerselves down, boys. Megan, clear that mess up, would ya?" He stood up, reached over the table to shake hands. "I'm Scott. And I'm guessing you boys are some type of law?"

"Yessir," Dean responded, sitting down. They nodded at the gathered men.

The man next to Scott, a graying Hispanic man, gave Sam's shorn head a shrewd look. "Hey, Hugh, looks like our lawman here got visited by the nighttime barber." All the men focused on Sam, and a quiet ripple of chuckles swept around the table. Sam ran his hand over his fuzzy haircut, blushed, folded his lips, and gave them a curt nod.

"Well, yeah, and that's why we're here to chat with you, Mr. Scott," Dean used the opportunity to plunge right in. Megan slid a plate of pie before him, dumped two cheap coffee cups before them, and filled them up. 

"Everything okay?" she asked. Sam and Dean nodded, and she whisked off to another table.

"Y'see, the sheriff mentioned that all of the...um...incidents affected you, so we thought we'd see if you had any thoughts..."

Sam tuned him out, focusing on each of the men, one at a time. One of them, a rangy, scrawny balding guy with bushy gray-brown eyebrows and mustache, caught his eyes: he was staring down at his coffee cup with a small frown, stirring it idly with his spoon. Without warning, he dropped his spoon on the table, stood up, and mumbled, "I'll see y'guys later." He sauntered off to the front door, all long legs and arms, head down in thought.

Sam nudged Dean. Dean glanced at him. Sam jerked his head after the man who had just left. Dean twitched an eyebrow, looked after him, narrowed his eyes, nodded. He continued talking to Scott and the others. He was taking bites of the pie with happy appreciation whenever one of the men answered a question.

Sam angled his own long legs out from under the table, stood up, and followed the rangy man, catching up by his pickup in the dusty, unpaved parking lot.

"Hey. Sam McDonald." He held out his hand with the abrupt introduction. The man squinted at him narrowly, nodded, shook his hand.

"Jeff Hines."

"I noticed you weren't joining in with the others in describing what all has been going on."

Hines stared out at the street, frowning and chewing his lips. He shifted, scratched his head, then looked back at Sam.

"Yeah. The big mystery."

He sounded somewhat scornful. Sam tilted an eyebrow. "So you don't think it's much of a mystery?"

Hines looked away, rocked back and forth on his heels. "See, they probably all have a good idea, but nobody wants to mess with Hugh. But, damn, there he is, playing like he's in the dark, when he's gotta know. Y'know?"

Sam was definitely in the dark himself, but he gamely replied, "Uh. Okay. He's got to know what, exactly?"

Hines stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and frowned down at the dust. "I don't want to get anyone in trouble." He sighed, looked back up. "But, hell, it's gotta be Jen. His ex," he clarified. Having given out that much, he seemed to relax, and the words came pouring out. "Jen--see, Hugh caught her having an affair. And, well, I guess he was just mad as hell, and he's kinda biblical, and--well--damn. The guys laughed about it, but I didn't think it was funny, not at all. See, she had this really gorgeous long blond hair--" Hines blushed faintly. "Anyways, that night, he chopped it all off while she was asleep." Sam's brows jerked up in surprise. "And then told her it was punishment for adultery the next morning. And then kicked her out." Hines fell silent for a moment, staring into the distance, jaw working. "Now I know some folks is real religious. And I know that Hugh was just gut-wrenched about her steppin' out on him like that. But, damn. Just wasn't--wasn't--" He stopped again, waved his hands, apparently at a loss for words. Finally, he finished, "Well. It ain't what I woulda done, y'know?"

"Uh. Yeah, me either," Sam answered faintly. Anger, passion, made people do strange things, he knew, but something like that--?

"Anyways. So y'might wanna talk with Jen." He frowned down at the dirt, kicked it, shrugged, jerked open the truck door and climbed in. He fumbled with some papers clipped to the driver's visor, handed Sam a card. "This is her nail salon. She's prob'ly there, if not, y'can get ahold of her at that number." He nodded at Sam, closed the door, and drove off, a small whirlwind of dust rising behind the truck.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds a clue--a lock of his hair--at Jen Scott's nail salon.

Sam watched Hines drive off. Then he pulled out his phone, texted the address to Dean, added "Lead!", then located the address on the map. Close enough to walk. He squinted at the door to Lisa's Cafe, thought a moment, then wheeled and strode off.

The salon, located in a small indoor mall, was called "Nailed It!" It was tiny and cozy and empty right now, with a sign that said, "Back at 3:30!", with the exclamation point made out of a curving heart. Sam glanced around, saw that no-one was around, slipped out his lock-picking tool, and went to work. A few seconds later, the lock clicked open, and Sam eased his way in.

Gold, copper, brown, red, yellow--warm colors abounded, on tapestries draped on the walls and slung over the overstuffed armchairs, in artwork, in the dried flowers in terra cotta vases. It was actually a very soothing effect. He swept his eyes around the small room, taking in women's magazines, a wild array of fingernail polishes, a small display advertising hair extensions, family photos--

He stopped his survey and his eyes swung back to the hair extension display.

Was that--?!?

No, _really_ , was that--?!?

He growled, stepped closer, examined it with narrowed, angry eyes, unconsciously running his hand over his new buzz cut.

Golden blonde, ebony black, vivid red, and...there, in the middle...

"My _hair_!!" he choked out. "No, goddammit, that's just too much--!" And, yes, there it was, in the midst of the featured locks of hair: his very own mahogany waves, pinned to the board like a fucking hunting trophy.

There was a discreet knock at the door. Sam swung around, eyes wild, ready to take down the witch, but it was just Dean, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame, alertly scanning the mall lobby for passersby. Sam stalked forward, yanked the door open, seized Dean's elbow and propelled him in. "Look at it! Just _look_ at it!" he hissed furiously, pointing at the hair extensions.

Dean obediently looked, then quickly turned his head away, trying to smother his automatic snicker.

"Oh, yeah, easy for _you_ to laugh, dammit! My _hair_!" Sam snarled softly. "She's--she's-- _selling_ my fucking hair!" His voice was filled with righteous outrage.

It was too much. Dean collapsed into one of the armchairs, hand covering his face, the other pounding on one of the chair arms, body shaking with suppressed giggles. His feet thumped the floor once or twice, then he waved helplessly at the display. "Selling! It! Dude! Awesome!"

Sam watched him, jaw clenched, fists flexing by his sides, breathing in small, angry snorts. "Dean. Not funny, Dean!"

"Sorry! Sorry! Can't. Be. Just. That. Though," Dean gasped in between spurts of laughter. He settled down, pulled his hand away from his face to look at his brother, started to say something more, then put it back up again to hide his renewed snickering. He finally drew in a gasping breath, set his face, carefully focused away from Sam and the incriminating display, and said, with difficulty, "There's gotta be more. For one thing, that's not all of it. You had an awful lot of hair..." He stopped, stifled another laugh. "For another, she managed it without waking us up. Third--well. There's all those folks going nutso after the hacking." Talking it out made him remember how serious the whole thing could be, so he was entirely sober by now. "So maybe we should be checking out where she lives, see if there's evidence of witchery, y'know?" He drew in another ragged breath, ran his hands through his own short brown hair, and stood up. "We should take that hair anyway, just in case."

Sam glared at him, then nodded abruptly, yanking the lock of his hair loose from the display. He looked down at it in his hand, stroked it sadly, then pocketed it.

"Okay, then. Where does she live?"

"Weeeell..." Dean moved to the small cherrywood desk with the cash register. There was a drawer; he opened it, rummaged around. "Let's see. Hmm. Business invoices, no good. Client list--nah. Fifty kazillion bobby pins--what the hell does a nail salon need with bobby pins?!? Gah. Not finding anything."

They were both so focused on the search that they didn't hear the door open softly, didn't hear her footsteps coming in. So when she spoke, they jerked up as one in surprise and dismay.

"If you're looking for something in particular, gentlemen, maybe I can help you?" she said in a quiet, sardonic tone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean confront Jen Scott in the nail salon, and a battle ensues.
> 
> A/N: sorry for the huge delay! I was preparing for DenverCon, then *at* the con, then recuperating. ;-) (It was fantastic!)

Dean's first, irrelevant thought, was that Jen Scott looked like a lot like Jodi Mills might, at age 60. Save for the plumpness. And the solid grey hair carefully arranged in a huge bouffant do, held with, he estimated, a metric ton of hairspray. While he was mentally stuttering on the idea, Sam quickly moved forward to intercept her, but he was too late. She reached into her purse, pulled out a hex bag, and tossed it on the floor of the salon, murmuring a Latin incantation.

The result: their feet were frozen to the floor. No problem for Dean, who hadn't moved, but Sam had to twist awkwardly to avoid pitching face forward and maybe breaking an ankle. This, of course, drew Scott's attention; she gazed at him and a wide smile flitted across her face.

"Why, I do believe it's the source of my _gorgeous_ mahogany hair swatches," she drawled cheerily. "Darlin', d'you _know_ how many of my clients would simply _kill_ for that hair? It's my best seller! Well. After Steph's blonde, that is. And, my, you're so _big_ , standing up! I think you'll do _very_ nicely for my finale. I'm _so_ sorry you'll be in jail afterwards, but I'll be _sure_ to bring by my prize-winning brownies when you're in the pen, sweetie." She stopped and switched her attention to Dean. "Well! Aren't you just the _handsomest_ man!" she exclaimed happily, appreciative eyes traveling up and down his body. Dean glared back silently, jaw working. She sighed. "It's just too darned bad that your hair's so _short_. Can't do a _thing_ with you--I'm a hair witch, y'know. Well, and nails, too, of course, that's why my _tiny_ little salon here does so well, but there's really not too much y'can do with nail clippings. Besides..." She shuddered. "Ugh. Nail clippings. So... _nasty_!"

Sam--after blushing angrily at the status of his hair swatches--was trying to move his feet. They stayed riveted in place. Since Dean had ended up directly behind him when they were glued to the floor, he couldn't see him, see what he was doing.

How the _hell_ were they going to get out of this?!?

Scott pouted. "You two are just _awfully_ quiet!" she complained.

"That's because you talk too much," Dean muttered snidely. Sam snorted, covering it up with a cough.

Her eyes widened, and she put a shocked hand up to her mouth. "Well! I _never_! And you seemed like such _nice_ boys, too! That's just _rude_!"

"I'll--I'll 'rude' _you_ , dammit, lady, just as soon as I can get loose from your damned glue hex!" Dean snarled.

 _"Hmph!"_ She tossed her head, bouffant moving along like an iron helmet. Then she pursed her lips, shook her head, and clasped her hands in front of herself. "Well! I think _you_ , Mr. Handsome, need to be taken care of, and then I'll put your partner, here, into storage until it's time for my finale. _Sooooo..._ " she sing-songed, rummaging in her purse again, and pulling out another lock of Sam's hair. She held it in one hand, stroked it with the other, and murmured some more Latin.

Sam noticed that she even emphasized certain words in her chant, just like her normal chatter. Then she made a fussy shooing motion toward him, and he found himself turning without volition to face his brother.

"What the hell--?!?"

"Off you go, like a _good_ boy! Sic'm, darlin'!"

He found himself staggering around in an about-face and marching forward, advancing on Dean. It felt extremely strange to have his body do things without his command. He fought the compulsion as hard as he could, but there was no effect; he just kept moving awkwardly toward Dean, who watched him approach with eyes that got wider as he got closer. Dean was jerking his legs, trying to pry his feet loose, to no avail.

"Dean! Dammit! _Do_ something!" Sam called urgently, as his arms came up, hands aiming towards his brother's throat. "She's making me do this! I can't stop it!"

"Sure! Fine! Gimme some ideas here! What the fuck do I _do_?!?" Dean responded sarcastically, leaning backwards to keep his throat out of reach.

"Goddamit, Dean, if I _knew_ , I'd've _told_ you!" he gritted out in frustration. His hands started to clasp together, and Dean swiftly ducked under his arms, head coming back up to the outside of Sam's arms. Sam's body turned again to face him, and his hands reached out once more. Dean repeated the awkward twisting, bobbing movement, and easily evaded them a second time.

"Hunh," Dean muttered thoughtfully. "Yo, Ms. Scott!" he called out, twisting away another time as Sam's body readjusted and aimed again. "You're not exactly smooth with--" Another bob and twist. "--this control shit, y'know?" Sam could see that he was getting tired of the whack-a-mole dodging; he was beginning to pant. Just a tiny bit right now. But if Scott kept it up, Sam would wear him down, and there would come a moment when Dean would slip up, bob in the wrong direction. Clumsy as her control was, strangling him would surely be easy enough for her to do, once she got Sam's hands around his neck.

She just gave out another miffed _"Hmph!",_ and tossed her head again. Her hands were busy moving through the air in front of her as if she were moving a ball around. Each of her movements corresponded to one of Sam's awkward motions.

"Stop chattering at her and think! Ideas, dude!" Sam snarled. He really, _really_ didn't want to be forced to kill Dean.

"What the fuck?!?" Dean sounded offended. "There's not much I can do while she's got me glued to the fucking floor, Sam! I got no ideas here!" They went through another two rounds of reach, duck, and twist during the exchange.

Glued. To the floor. He thought, as his hands reached out like a robot again. Glue? What could counteract glue?

"Dean. Glue. What can we use to--to--I dunno, loosen glue? Maybe that would work?" He hissed quietly to avoid Scott hearing him. Dean's eyes caught his as he bobbed upwards. Sam could see him ticking off possibilities. He absently twisted away again, out of Sam's reach, eyes darting over the nail salon supplies within reach. At the next round, he dipped with a lean towards the desk, reached out, grabbed a bottle.

He held it up, shrugging. "Nail polish remover?" he asked.

Sam thought, while his body shifted again. "Acetone. Yeah. Good idea. Give it a try."

Dean dodged, opened the bottle, and poured some on one foot while he was ducked down. Sam looked down, saw his brother's leg twisting and pulling. Nothing happened.

"Shit!" Dean hissed angrily, glaring at the bottle. He shook his head. "No go." Distracted, he almost missed his chance to avoid Sam's clutching hands.

Sam thought quickly. "Aim for the hex bag," he urged. Dean shrugged again, glanced at the bag, off to one side, made some quick calculations, and forcefully shook some of the acetone out of the bottle in the direction of the bag.

It was a direct hit. Liquid splashed over the bag, soaked into it, and Dean pumped his arm with a triumphant, " _YES_!!!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean breaks free from Scott's spell, and tries to figure out how to break the spell on Sam.

Even as he was pumping his fist, a quick, tentative movement proved his feet were no longer frozen to the floor. He was across the room and tackling Scott to the floor without thought, grabbing the Purse o' Hexes and slinging it away from her before she had a chance to reach in for yet another spell bag.

In the background, Sam still awkwardly grabbed at empty air where Dean's throat should have been. But Scott, distracted, was now ineffectually batting at Dean, and the hair spell, following her hand movements, sent Sam jerking, twitching, and spinning. Dean grabbed at the lock of hair still clenched in Scott's fist, and winced as he heard Sam crash into a display of nail polish. Small bottles tinkled as they fell and rolled across the floor.

"God _dammit_ , woman! Let go!" Dean panted as he tried to pry her fingers loose.

" _You_! Let go of me, you _oaf _! I _swear_ , you young men have the _worst_ manners!" she panted in reply, baring perfectly white teeth. She yanked her hand away.__

Sam smashed backwards into the desk they had been searching, falling on top of it as it tumbled. " _Shit_! Dean, get it away from her! I can't take much of this!"

Dean bared his teeth back at Scott, snarling, "Lady, where I come from, it's mighty damned ' _bad manners_ ' to cut off people's hair while they're sleeping!" He grabbed her in a bear hug from behind, clamped one hand on her wrist, and squeezed hard. "And then to use it to slam a spell on them!" His other hand pried one finger at a time away from the fist. "If you don't let go _right now_ , I'm gonna start breaking fingers, got it?"

His imprisonment of Scott's wrist had given Sam a respite; he lay (laid?) on the floor panting and making small whimpering sounds; he still couldn't move of his own volition, and the shattered desk beneath him, and its associated desktop detritus, was digging into his back.

Scott crumpled at the threat of breaking fingers; her hand spasmed open beneath Dean's prying fingers, and he grabbed the lock of Sam's hair, holding it up and out of Scott's reach as he stood up himself. He whirled around, took a step forward. Sam stood up, whirled around, and took a step forward.

"Um," Dean said quietly, holding the hand with the lock of hair very, _very_ still.

"Um, yeah," Sam muttered in response.

Dean angled his head back to look at Scott, slowly and cautiously sitting up on the floor. "Okay, lady. You have one minute. Tell me how to break the spell."

She just glared up at him. Her bouffant hair helmet was now askew, her plump face was red from exertion and anger, and her neat sailor blouse was ripped under one arm and pulled out of her elastic-waist jeans on the other side. She looked much different than the neatly coiffed and dressed lady who had confidently entered the salon.

"Thirty seconds," Dean added when she didn't respond.

" _Well!_ If you're going to be _mean_ about it--!" she huffed.

"Oh, trust me, lady, you ain't seen mean yet. Fifteen seconds."

She shrugged sulkily, and said, "If you _must_ know, all you need to do is cut the hair again." She folded her lips mulishly, sniffed, and deliberately looked away from him.

Dean fumbled at the back of his waist for his knife, still carefully holding the lock of hair steady. He drew it, flicked a doubtful glance back down at Scott, then folded the lock in half, clenched his teeth, prayed that cutting the hair wasn't going to result in Sammy being slashed in half himself, and slid the knife through it. He dropped the hair and immediately focused on Sam, who moved an experimental hand, then a cautious foot, then nodded at his brother.

"Okay, Sammy?" he asked tightly. Sam nodded again, a relieved grin spreading across his face. 

Then Sam's grin faded, because he had, out of habit, swept his hand up to push back his hair...and the hair was still gone. He sighed and his shoulders slumped. He resignedly reached behind his back and began brushing off the paper clips and hairpins that had stabbed into him while he was immobilized.

Dean watched him closely, noting the automatic gesture and the accompanying sigh. His lips folded angrily, and he dropped down into a crouch before Scott, grabbing her shoulders. "Now," he said grimly. "Now you're gonna put his damned hair back. Got me?"

Her eyes widened and her lips formed a dismayed oval. "But...but..." She stopped.

"But _what_?" Dean snarled, shaking her. "Put the hair _back_ , dammit!"

"But it doesn't _work_ like that!" she wailed, hiding her face in her hands, and shrinking down as much as she could while still held by Dean's hard grip.

"Dean--"

He blinked down at her, ignoring Sam. "Wha'd'ya mean, 'it doesn't work like that'?!? You got it off--now put it back!"

"I don't know _how_!" she shouted angrily, dropping her hands and glaring at him again.

" _Dean_! Stop. We don't need her. It'll grow back. We've got plenty of time, and I can be patient."

Dean was feeling stubborn. And irritated. If she could magically cut hair, surely she could make it grow again? He glared at Sam, who simply held his eyes calmly and shook his head. Dean growled, "Dammit, Sammy!"

Sam shook his head again. "Nope. Cool it, dude. I can wait." He paused, then went on, thoughtfully, "Besides, I'd really rather not have her playing with witchcraft with me as her subject anymore." He shivered and ran a hand over his velvety hair. "Twice is enough."

Scott looked up hopefully, glancing from Sam to Dean, then back again. Dean shook her absently, eyes still on his brother. He chewed at his lips for a moment, then finally shrugged. "Okay, then. But what do we do with her now? We can't leave her free to run around town shearing long-haired folks so she can sell their hair and make them do things to her ex--!"

The two of them looked down at her thoughtfully. She looked up at them. There was a long silence.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam finally broke the silence with a tentative, "Cas?"

Dean flicked a puzzled frown at him.

Sam quickly clarified. "Maybe Cas will have some ideas? Or maybe he can--I dunno--do something?" He gestured at the figure of Scott huddling in a defeated heap on the floor.

"Hunh. Yeah, maybe. Worth a try." Dean shrugged, pulled out his phone, called Cas.

"Cas," he said when the angel answered the phone. He angled slightly away from Sam out of habit; it was something he did unconsciously whenever he spoke to Cas on the phone.

"Dean," Cas replied. The pleasure in his voice made Dean break into a soft smile automatically. "Why are you calling? Do you need help?" Typical Cas, no chit-chat, awkward opening, eager to help out.

"Yeah, buddy, we've got a...uh...situation here that you might be able to...um...advise us on," Dean said, running his hand over the back of his head. He turned to look at Sam and Jen Scott again, his eyes glancing off the mess in the salon.

"I'll be right there." The line abruptly went dead. Dean pulled the phone away from his ear, gave it a quizzical look. Again, typical Cas. Social niceties were not his forte.

There was the sound of sails fluttering in the wind, and Cas was suddenly standing beside him, just a bit within comfortable personal space, trenchcoat rumpled and tie askew as always. His vivid blue eyes locked with Dean's until Dean shifted his away, blinking.

"What is the problem, Dean?"

In answer, he simply gestured about the room. Cas looked away, scanning the scene. His eyes came to an abrupt stop when he focused on Sam. His head tilted inquiringly, his eyebrows twitched down a fraction, and he asked, in a puzzled voice, "What are you atoning for, Sam?"

Both of them just stared at Cas in bewilderment. Cas's tiny frown grew larger. "Your--" He gestured wordlessly at Sam's head. "You have cut your hair in penance. What for? It must be something you feel extremely guilty about."

Sam just gaped at him. Cas was suddenly uncertain. "This is a thing humans do--shear their hair to atone, do penance for some wrong they have done others, or God. Right?"

"Uh. Cas, buddy, yeah, some folks did it, in the past, and maybe even now, in some parts of the world, but--uh--" Dean stopped, waved his hands in frustration, trying to figure out how they had all gotten sidetracked like this. 

Sam rescued him.

"Cas. This--" He pointed to his head, continuing, " _This_ was done by _that_ woman." He pointed at Scott. "A witch. She did it to be able to control me, make me do things...and to _sell_ it!" His voice strangled on his remembered outrage.

Cas blinked at him, totally confused. "So...it was not penance? You did not do this?" Sam shook his head. "I admit that I thought it was quite unusual for you. You are normally...quite protective of your long hair." He stopped, his frown morphing from puzzlement to anger. "And this--this-- _woman_ \--" He sounded like he was struggling not to use a less flattering word. "--She did this to you _without your permission_?!?" His voice rose.

Sam just nodded. Cas's growing wrath was quite satisfying to him, after Dean's rather blasé reaction. Cas seemed to grow, blue light was streaming from him, and the shadow of his wings spreading stretched across the wall of the salon. He bent toward Scott, reaching out a hand--

"Uh. Cas. Buddy. No smiting!" Dean said quickly. Cas turned his burning blue eyes to him. "Really, dude. We want another solution. Smiting, bad. Solutions, good. Okay?"

The brilliant actinic light was veiled as Cas blinked. Then, to Sam and Dean's relief, the light faded away, Cas returned to his normal size, and the wing shadows disappeared. He was still wrathful, though.

"No smiting?!? This--this-- _creature_ \--" Cas was sputtering. "She violates Sam's bodily integrity, takes his hair against his will, uses it to control him--!"

Scott had recuperated a bit by this time, though she had flinched violently at Cas's display. At this, she hunched an irritable shoulder, and muttered, " _Well_! You make it sound just _awful_! It wasn't _that_ bad!" She shut up and ducked her head down when Cas glared at her, his eyes beginning to glow again.

"Okay. Cas, I was thinking more on the order of, say, some sort of inhibition, or something that makes it impossible for her to use her witchery against anyone," Sam said quickly. He frowned thoughtfully, his forehead wrinkling deeply. "Can you do that? I know you can erase memories--" He stopped short of mentioning Lisa and Ben.

Cas folded his lips, thought a few moments, then nodded. "I can do both, if you want?" he offered. Sam glanced at Dean, who shrugged.

"Sounds good to me," he said. Then a thought struck him. "So, uh...healing...would, um, growing hair be considered 'healing'? See, uh...well, dammit, I just can't get used to Sam looking like a military recruiting poster..." Sam's eyes widened slightly, and he froze, a spark of hope leaping in him.

But Cas shook his head. "No, that would not be considered healing." Sam slumped, sighing. No, that would be too simple. Better to accept the idea of it growing back naturally... "However, if Sam would like it, I _can_ return his hair to its former state."

Cas looked a question at him, and Sam nodded violently, stuttering, "Y-y-yes, please, if you can do that--!" In answer, the angel took a step closer, reached to lay a hand on Sam's forehead, closed his eyes, and concentrated. It was an eerie feeling. Sam could feel his hair moving, twisting and growing, tickling the back of his neck as it got longer. His neck and head suddenly felt significantly warmer. When Cas pulled away, Sam stood straighter, and tossed his head. His hair--back again!--swayed with the movement. One lock fell forward into his face. He took a moment to savor the sight and the feel of it, then reached up, pushed it back.

Dean tilted his head questioningly, lifting his eyebrows. Sam smiled, and Dean grinned back, giving him a thumbs up.

Then they all turned their attention to Jen Scott. She was glaring at Sam, as if his hair growing back so quickly was an insult. Then she switched her glare to Cas. "Humph! If _I_ knew how to do that, I would have," she sniffed, tossing her head. "So just what _are_ you, anyway, handsome? All glowy blue and haughty like you are?"

"I am an angel of the Lord," he replied simply. Her jaw dropped, then she shook her head in denial. 

"Ain't no such thing!" she protested. He merely looked at her. She wilted.

"So. An inhibition on harming others, and a--shall we say, 'muddling'?--of her ability to do witchcraft?"

Sam and Dean both nodded silently. Cas laid his hand on Jen Scott's forehead. She tried shrinking away, but it was no use; his hand landed squarely on her skin, he paused, and then removed it. Nothing seemed different, except that Scott slid quietly down to the floor and started snoring.

Cas looked around at the salon and smiled slightly. "Perhaps I should clean this mess up, as well?"

Dean looked around, too. The small desk was in pieces on the floor. There were violent neon streaks of nail polish on the orange and gold tapestry throws and pillows. Bobby pins and paper clips were scattered across the floor. The sample locks of hair had landed in a puddle of deep red nail polish which was already developing a layer of duller, lighter dried polish on top. The place smelled of lacquer and acetone. The defused hex bag was a smelly gray mish-mosh of herbs and burlap.

"Oh, yeah. Do it, and let's get out of here!" Dean shuddered and clapped a hand on Cas's shoulder.

Cas smiled, reached out to lay a hand on each of their shoulders, and the salon melted away, to be replaced by the darkness of the parking lot and the welcome sight of the Impala.

"She will wake up in an hour or two, remembering this episode as if it were a dream. The salon is back in order. Are you satisfied with your hair, Sam?" Cas and Dean looked at him. Dean snorted as Sam, in response, tossed his mahogany hair back, ran his hand through it, and sighed with deep satisfaction.

"Don't be thinking that I'm gonna stop pestering you about it," he warned Sam darkly, fishing his keys out of his pocket and opening Baby's door. Cas opened the door behind him and climbed in.

Sam said nothing as he folded his long legs into the passenger seat, just smiled some more.

"And if you start calling your hair 'My Precious', dude, I'm gonna sic Cas on you!" Dean turned the key in the ignition, pressed his foot down on the gas pedal, and spun the Impala sharply out of the lot, tires squealing.


End file.
